by Ona Russell My father can hardly contain himself. Since we spotted the Boyle Heights exit, he’s been craning his neck, shifting in his seat, ordering me to turn this way, not that. He’s eighty-five, but reminds me more of my six year-old grandson at the sight of the Disneyland Matterhorn. Or myself at the Nordstrom’s off ramp. (Photo to left: Samuel Kantor) The visit to Boyle Heights, an area once known for its ethnic diversity, is ostensibly professional for me. I am researching it for my third historical novel, set there in the 1920s. Among other things, my story relies on the premise that despite its melting pot status, strong divisions existed among the various working class groups, especially geographically, with neighborhoods intentionally segregated. But narrative considerations aren’t motivating my dad as we drive up the 5, and his reason for accompanying me certainly has nothing to do with fiction. Indeed, he grew up in the community and is simply excited...

by Josefina López as told to Jeremy Rosenberg My father came to the U.S. as a bracero. This was the guest worker program initiated during World War II because most of the capable men had left. Women started working in factories and hundreds of thousands of Mexican men were brought in to do the jobs that there weren't men here to do. My father was one of those men who came. After working contracts he decided to stay in Los Angeles. He was undocumented for a couple of years; he got deported four times. Eventually he was able to get help from a friend and bring in my mother. Then my sister was born in the country- that helped my parents get legal residency. My family came from San Luis Potosi, in a little town called Cerritos, in central Mexico, about five hours north of Mexico City. It takes thirty-two or thirty-eight hours to drive from there to here. My father used to drive it all the time. When my father sent for us, it took three days and several buses to get from Cerr...